MacLaren's Bride: The Heiresses, #2

By Debra Dier

From award winning author Debra Dier comes a tale of lost love and second chances. MacLaren's Bride is set in the Scottish Highlands soon after Waterloo.

This edition includes substantial revisions to characters and plot. Book 2 in The Heiresses Series. Each book in the series can be enjoyed as a stand-alone novel.

Ms. Dier has written a thoroughly enjoyable novel that readers will love! Combine a wild Scottish warrior and an English ice queen and you get a passionate romance sure to enthrall readers! Magical! A wonderful story from the pen of Debra Dier! A fast-paced, romantic tale! Debra Dier will woo many readers with her gift for story telling! Kristina Wright — Copyright © Literary Times, Inc. All rights reserved — From Literary Times

Meg Drummond was known as the Snow Queen, a challenge to the gentlemen of the ton, for it was said she could freeze a man with a single glance of her green eyes. No one knew the icy castle walls were built to protect the vulnerable girl within. Meg didn't trust easily, not after witnessing the fiery destruction of her parents' marriage. Since she was a child she had only ever thought of one man in terms of happily ever after, and he had never returned her regard. 

After leaving the Highlands, Meg managed to change from an awkward hoyden into the elegant lady her English mother expected her to be. Though she allowed her estranged father to believe she would marry an Englishman to spite him, she had no intention of ever allowing any man close enough to hurt her, until Alec MacLaren charged back into her life. She has loved the charming rogue since she was a child. Yet can she trust the wicked Highlander with her heart? 

A hero of Waterloo, Alec owed Meg's father his life. Although he had no desire for an arranged marriage, Alec kidnapped and married Meg out of his debt to Robert Drummond. Once he held Meg in his arms he realized there just might be something more to this marriage than he had expected. A suspicious tragedy had made him Earl of Dunleith. Alec doesn't realize a murderer lurks in the shadows waiting to take everything from him. 

After years of war Alec longs for a home and family. He knows he must break through the wall of ice surrounding Meg's heart, gain her trust, and awaken her desire to truly make her his bride. 

"Debra Dier always brings something new and special to the genre…"—RT Reviews

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dierington Press
• Release date: Feb 16, 2016
• ISBN: 9781629960289

Debra Dier

Debra Dier is the bestselling author of sixteen critically acclaimed romance novels and short stories. Her work has earned her a place in the Writer's Hall of Fame. Deb was born and raised in Niagara Falls, New York. Although she always knew she wanted to do something creative in life, well-meaning family members talked her into doing something in a much more practical light. She received a BS in Information Systems Management and headed down a career path that included writing computer code and designing computer systems. It wasn't exactly what she had in mind when she thought of a purely creative career. For some mystifying reason, she was put on a fast track in that career and became a manager of other programmers and analysts in a large corporation at a young age. It was then she decided to try her hand at writing something other than computer systems. After her first novel, Surrender the Dream was published, she took the plunge into writing full time. She has never regretted that decision. When her daughter was a toddler, Debra decided to take a short hiatus from writing to concentrate on all things motherhood. There wasn't a task she didn't take on, including making Halloween costumes, volunteering for room parent every year, and becoming a Girl Scout leader. By the way, her idea of camping is staying at a three star hotel. Not precisely the roughing it kind of girl. At the urging of her daughter, Deb has found herself sleeping on a mat in a tent in the wild, and in a plywood cabin she lovingly referred to as rent a shack. It is amazing what we will do for our young. Deb lives in the mid-west with her family, their two Irish Setters who often make appearances in her books, and two cats who keep asking for starring roles. To all of her readers who were afraid she had died or retired and were not quite sure what would be worse, she hopes you are pleased with the updated versions of the older books. To everyone who wants something completely new, she intends to get back to her new series very soon.

Book preview

Books by Debra Dier

Dangerous

MacKenzie’s Magic

Beyond Forever

Devil’s Honor

Saint’s Temptation

Lord Savage

Scoundrel

The Sorcerer’s Lady

Deceptions and Dreams

A Quest of Dreams

Shadow of the Storm

Surrender the Dream

My Scottish Summer (Short Story Anthology)

Holiday Inn (Short Story Anthology)

Christmas Angels (Short Story Anthology)

Dedication

For my brother Denny and his family: Sally, Beth, Dani, Dennis and Chrisdin.

Prologue

Scotland, 1806

Margaret Drummond wasn’t sure when it had happened. She couldn’t name the date, the specific time of year, or what she was wearing the first time it had smacked her squarely between the eyes. She suspected it had crept upon her slowly, like an illness, one that started with a little tickle in the throat and ended with every limb trembling like a willow in a gale. No she could not point to a date and say that is the day it happened, she only knew she was completely and irrevocably in love.

Although she realized fifteen might be a little young to marry, she could wait five months until her sixteenth birthday. It was a well-known fact the women in her family married young. There was no reason why Meg shouldn’t plan for her own wedding. Except for one minor detail—the object of her affection hadn’t actually pledged his love to her. In fact, she had every reason to believe Alec MacLaren might not even know he was in love with her. At least not yet.

Meg sat at the table in the family dining-room of Penross House, the Drummond ancestral home, contemplating ways she might catch Alec’s interest. She slipped a chunk of roast beef under the table. Wallace, her Irish red setter, lifted his head from her foot and gently took the morsel from her fingertips. He finished with one swipe of his tongue, cleaning her fingers of the gravy. Instead of her napkin, Meg used the edge of the crisp white linen tablecloth to dry her fingers.

At the soft sound of a man clearing his throat, she glanced at her brother Rory, who sat beside her. He grinned and winked, silently telling her he knew what she was about. With a little gesture of his head he directed her attention to the foot of the table, where Joanna Drummond sat frowning at Meg.

Feeding Wallace from the table was not an acceptable practice at the Drummond table, at least not since her mother had taken the notion to transform Meg into a proper lady. Meg shrugged and Joanna rolled her eyes, a smile curving her lips. Although her first London Season was two years away, everyone knew it would take a great deal of time and effort to alter Meg. She had been allowed to run wild for far too long.

I don’t see why I must wait another four years until I’m one and twenty to purchase a commission. Her brother Colin sounded far too bold for a dinner table conversation. Alec MacLaren has already done as much.

Meg’s heart stuttered, bouncing painfully against the wall of her chest. She lowered her fork and looked across the dinner table to Colin. Did you just say Alec purchased a commission?

Aye. He leaves tomorrow. Colin turned his head and directed his attention to their mother, apparently unaware of how he had just tipped the world on end.

Meg glanced at Rory and noticed he was watching Colin in that quiet, scholarly way he had of approaching every potential disaster. If you were facing a calamity, Rory was the man you wanted by your side, calculating a means to steer to safety using his prodigious brain.

With his dark chestnut brown hair, green eyes, and masterfully carved features, he was more handsome than Colin. Yet, where Rory was reserved, Colin was dashing in a wild untamed manner that demanded attention. Light from the two branched candelabras sitting in the middle of the table on either side of him glinted on Colin’s golden hair and face, exposing the determined look in his brown eyes.

I’m three weeks older than Alec, Colin said. I see no reason why I cannot purchase a commission now.

Joanna lifted a fluted wine-glass, the crystal catching the glint of candlelight. Meg had never known her mother to appear without her thick chestnut hair in perfect order. Her clothes were always fashionable, her manners impeccable. Joanna was in fact every inch a perfect lady, a far cry from her awkward daughter. Even though Joanna often assured Meg she would one day learn all the intricacies of proper behavior, Meg had her doubts she would ever achieve the easy elegance that was so much a part of her mother.

After taking a sip of red wine Joanna spoke, her voice low and soft, colored with the accent of the English upper class. I have no intention of discussing this at the dinner table, Colin.

Colin looked toward the other end of the table. Father, I thought…

Enough Colin. Robert Drummond sent his son a look that clearly said: not here, not now.

Colin glanced down at his plate and clenched his jaw. As you wish, sir.

Meg stared at Colin, a hundred questions fighting to be the first across her tongue. Alec isn’t going to the Peninsula. Is he?

Aye, he is. Colin glanced up, a look of disgust on his handsome face.

Colin closely resembled their father in looks and in temperament. Vikings inhabited part of their family tree. Both father and son were known for having a rather short fuse leading to a sizable cash of explosives. Since Meg had a similar affliction, she knew how difficult it could prove to remain calm when everything inside demanded an explosion.

Light Dragoons, under Wellesley. Colin’s voice dripped with what could only be described as poorly concealed frustration. He’ll see battle within a week. If I purchased a commission I could join him.

You would do better at Oxford, Colin. Rory swirled the wine in his glass, holding his younger brother’s gaze.

Although the eldest Drummond sibling could ride, shoot, and tumble into the occasional scrape with the best of them, as well as display a rather fine temper when provoked, Rory had a much longer fuse than his younger siblings. At times it was hard to imagine he was less than two years Colin’s senior. Usually, Rory seemed years older than his reckless younger brother.

Take a few years to explore the possibilities, see if the army is really what you want before you go slogging through one battlefield after another, Rory said, in his deep quiet voice. The army is a good way to meet an early death.

I’m not a scholar like you, Rory. I have no interest in spending my time sitting about listening to some old man spout the glories of ancient Rome.

There are other benefits, Rory said. You simply…

Battle within a week. Meg’s head rang with the dreadful news, shutting out the discussion that ensued between her brothers, the debate about the benefits of education over the glory of battle.

An early death. An image rose in Meg’s mind, like a ghost rising on a foggy night—Alec lying broken and bloody on a distant battlefield. He could die and never know how she felt. Her chest ached with a horrible mingling of fear and anxiety. She had to see Alec. She had to tell him before it was too late.

***

Meg had never been a shy girl. She had grown up with two older brothers who had always treated her as though she was the youngest brother in the family, at least until recently. Meg had spent the first thirteen years of her life running about in Colin’s old clothes, with her hair in braids, doing her best to keep up with her brothers and their friends, most notably Alec. Now she was obliged to wear riding habits and use a side saddle. The rules of proper behavior stated clearly ladies must live in tidy little boxes.

Meg had come to the ruins of the ancient fort perched on the cliffs above Loch Laren this morning dressed in a pretty dark green riding habit with one purpose in mind. Wallace moved his head, resting his chin on Meg’s foot. After running beside her horse for the few miles from Penross House, the four year old setter had flopped on his side at Meg’s feet and decided it was a good time for a nap.

The wind swept down from the mountains, blowing across the long, wide surface of Loch Laren, whipping the water into frothy waves before they crashed against the rocky shore. The wind cast the blended scents of the lake, heather, and meadow grass against her face. It tugged strands from her neat braid and flicked the wayward golden curls across her face.

She looked toward Alec’s home, wondering if he would come. A little more than a mile south, the walls of Dunleith Castle rose like a vision from an ancient legend, gray stones gilded under the sun. Dunleith suited Alec. She could imagine him a knight from a legend, bold and adventurous, chivalrous and charming, battling for his king, winning the hearts of ladies along his way.

The sound of hoof beats rose above the sound of the wind and the waves crashing against the shore below the cliffs. Meg turned as Alec rode toward the fort atop Fionn, his huge gray stallion, using the path that led to the back of the fort.

At the first sight of Alec, Meg’s heart did a slow tumble, knocking against her lungs, forcing all the breath from her chest. Although he wore breeches and a riding coat, he hadn’t bothered with a hat. The wind whipped through his thick hair, tousling the black waves into loose, wayward curls. He pulled up a few yards from the fort and dismounted, alighting from the saddle in one powerful motion. His horse wandered over to her mare, tossed his head and nickered softly, receiving a soft nicker in reply.

A smile curved his lips as Alec met her gaze, a wide boyish grin that made her wish she could capture that smile in a sketch. Although drawings of Alec filled the pages of her sketch book, she had never done justice to that smile. She doubted the most accomplished artist could ever do justice to Alec’s smile. And his eyes, those eyes were layered with so many shades of blue she defied an artist to find just the right blending of oil pastels to match his eyes.

Alec pressed his hand on the low remains of a wall near the back of the fort and vaulted over it, his booted feet making a soft thud on the stones as he landed. You’ll looking bonnie fair, this morning.

Bonnie fair. Oh my goodness, she could scarcely breathe. I’m glad you came.

Your note sounded important. Alec strode toward her in long, loose limbed strides.

He was tall, and built along the sleek lines of a born athlete. The dark gray wool of his coat stretched elegantly over the width of his broad shoulders before cutting away and exposing his slim waist and narrow hips. The buff colored leather of his breeches molded the strong lines and curves of his long legs, before plunging into gleaming black boots.

Wallace jumped up and ran to the young man. Alec paused, rubbing the dog’s head briskly, praising him in that deep, dark voice that could send a shiver over her skin. After greeting the dog, both males continued toward Meg, Wallace staying close to Alec’s leg as though the tall young man was his master.

When they drew near Meg, Wallace flopped down on the moss and rested his chin on his paws. Alec paused a respectable distance from Meg and smiled. She looked up into the staggering male beauty of his face and wondered if she would ever see him after today. When she thought of how reckless he was being she wanted to scream.

Alec MacLaren, did a maggot crawl into your head?

Alec grinned. Colin told you about my commission.

Meg planted her hands on her hips. They are fighting a war, Alec. And you just volunteered to march straight into the heart of it.

I’m going to do my part. We cannot allow Napoleon to take over the world, now can we? He gestured toward the mountains rising on three sides of the lake, where heather splashed pink and purple over rugged gray slopes. Next you know he’ll be marching straight into Stirling. Someone has to stop him.

Thick black lashes framed his incredible eyes. Excitement burned in those blue depths, the excitement of a young knight about to set off on a glorious quest. You could be killed.

I’m good with a sword and a pistol. He tucked a wayward lock of hair behind her ear, the soft brush of his gloved fingers sending a legion of tingles along her skin. I can take care of myself.

Colin said you were leaving today. Meg’s stomach turned inward at the realization Alec would soon be gone. Did you intend to say goodbye?

I’d never leave without saying goodbye to you, Meg. He chucked her lightly beneath her chin. I’ll be over later this morning to say my farewell to you and your family.

I don’t want you to leave. Meg looked up at him and knew this might be her only chance to tell him a truth she could not keep locked in her heart. I love you, Alec. I want to marry you.

By the look on his face, she might have just slapped him rather than declared her love for him. His eyes grew wide and his lips parted, yet it took several seconds before he spoke. Meg, you’re a wee bit young to be thinking of marriage.

I’m fifteen, almost sixteen. Not so very young. And I know how I feel. She glanced down at the ground, feeling awkward and quite certain she was making a fool of herself. She stared at a clump of moss that had worked its way through the heart of a smooth stone cracking it into several pieces. I know what I want.

Alec slipped his gloved fingers under her chin and coaxed her to meet his gaze, the soft leather warm against her skin. When she looked at him, he smiled in a way that left no room for awkward feelings on her part. He looked at her as though he cared for her, as though he understood everything that burned in her heart.

You haven’t had a London Season. When you do, men will trip over each other trying to dance with you. You’ll have your pick of aristocrats and wealthy gentlemen, all wanting to win your hand. In two years, you won’t even remember what I look like.

Did the man own a mirror? No woman could ever look upon his face and forget him. Carved with strong lines and angles, complete with a cleft in his chin, his face had been crafted with the sole purpose of pleasing the feminine eye. Even if he had not been so outrageously handsome, and he hadn’t been dashing, he still would have been dear to her. Alec was kind and gentle, amusing and gallant in so many ways. Although nice sounded trite, outside of her brother Rory, Alec was the nicest man she knew.

Alec had always acted her champion, granted as though she were his little sister, but with affection just the same. He had even blackened the eye of one of his cousins when the English lout had insulted her last year.

How can you imagine I would ever forget you? We’ve been friends all of my life.

I’m not ready for marriage. And neither are you. Alec took her hand in a firm grip. Even though they both wore gloves, she felt it just the same, a spark of contact that sizzled through her. We’ll see how you feel in a few years, Meg. We’ll see how you feel when I come home.

Would he come home? She couldn’t imagine a world without Alec MacLaren. I’ll wait, Alec. Time won’t change my heart. No matter how many years, I’ll wait for you. I’ll love you until the day I die.

He smiled, warm and indulgent, a smile meant to last her a lifetime. You need to give yourself a chance in London. You need to be certain of your choice. Marriage is a lifetime.

I am certain.

It might be years before I’m home Meg. I need to make my own way in the world. And I’ll not have you wasting away while I’m gone. You mean too much to me to ruin your chances in life. Do you hear?

Meg knew her mind and her heart, no matter what he believed. I’ll wait for you.

He tilted his head, his gaze dipping to her lips. For one thrilling moment she imagined he might kiss her. She held her breath and waited, without any idea of what she should do if he kissed her. Purse her lips? Close her eyes? Hold her breath? Yet instead of kissing her lips, he pressed his lips to her brow, his breath feathering warmly against her skin.

I better leave, my bonnie Meg.

Stay safe, Alec. She squeezed his hand, wanting to hold him here, knowing he would soon walk out of her life, possibly forever. Please stay safe.

Now don’t you be worrying about me. I’ll be fine. He winked as a mischievous smile curved his lips. You enjoy your life, my bonnie Meg.

Meg sought words that would make him stay, but knew it was futile. Nothing would change his mind. He turned to leave, but after a few steps he pivoted and walked back to her. Sunlight broke through the clouds overhead and shone full upon his face, revealing every nuance, as though giving her one glorious image to keep close to her heart. The look in his eyes whispered of a secret he wanted to share with her.

Would you give me something, Meg? Something I can keep as a remembrance of you.

She wished she had a miniature she could give him or a locket with a lock of her hair. Yet she hadn’t come prepared with anything to give him. I can give it to you when you come to Penross House. Just tell me what you would like.

I would like this. He tugged the end of her ribbon and slipped the emerald satin from her braid. After pressing his lips to the ribbon, he bowed as a knight might to his lady before a joust. When I look at this I’ll think of you and remember home.

Meg stood in the ancient fort and watched him walk away from her, fighting the urge to sit and weep until all the feeling drained from her. For as long as she could remember Alec had been a vital part of her life. And now she would have to face each day knowing he would no longer be here to share his smile, his laughter, all the little details of his life.

Come back to me, she whispered, watching Alec ride toward Dunleith Castle. Please come back, Alec.

***

Eight months later, against their mother’s wishes, Meg’s brother Colin purchased a commission. Her parents argued, separated, came back together, and finally, after the truth of a horrible betrayal became known, the marriage fell into so many pieces no one could hope to put it back together again. When Joanna walked away from her husband, Meg lost the father she had always adored.

Meg and her mother left home and moved in with Joanna’s parents in England. Robert Drummond bought a commission and plunged into war, joining Colin and Alec in the Peninsula. Rory left Oxford to take control of the family estate. So many changes, in so many lives, in so little time. Through it all Meg often looked at the drawings in her sketch book and wished for Alec to come to her.

When she was seventeen Meg attended the London Season for the first time. At her presentation the Prince Regent took one look at her and declared in his rather bored, lisping drawl that Meg was a diamond of the first water. The next day the drawing room of her grandfather’s house was filled with gentlemen, each falling into one of two categories: those seeking an ornament to decorate their drawing rooms, or fortune hunters seeking a wealthy bride to fill their coffers. Not one gentleman seemed interested in learning more about the girl behind the mask.

At her first musicale Meg overheard two ladies discussing Lady Chadburne’s granddaughter. Mrs. Seymore—a lady so thin her hands looked like an Osprey’s feet—said in a shrill voice that carried through most of the room: She is Scottish you know. I wouldn’t be surprised if she dances barefooted at the ball. Apparently the ton expected Meg to be vulgar simply because she was Scottish. Meg pretended she hadn’t heard, even though she felt certain Mrs. Seymore had intended to inflict her judgement on her. Meg spent the rest of the musicale with a tight uncomfortable feeling in her stomach. What if she made a fool of herself at the ball her grandparents were giving for her?

When she walked into her grandfather’s ballroom for her first ball she thought: This is what I imagine walking into the coliseum to meet the lions must have felt like. After the ball, after hours of minding her every word and gesture, something broke inside of her. Meg sank to the floor of her bed chamber, crinkling her white silk gown. Sobs racked her, tears spilling down her cheeks doing further damage to the lovely gown. Wallace sat beside her on the floor and bumped her shoulder with his nose.

I know I should be happy, she said, swiping at the tears she couldn’t stem. Wallace tilted his head as though trying to understand her. Mama said it was a victory. Apparently I’m a great success. But it was so overwhelming.

All night everyone had watched her, hoping for her to make a mistake. It had taken so much care to do all the right things, and it was only the beginning. She had to maintain this elegant façade for the rest of her life.

Wallace rested his head on her shoulder, giving comfort in that peculiar way dogs have of connecting with their humans. She turned and hugged him, pressing her wet cheek into his warm velvety fur, breathing in his clean doggy scent, knowing he loved her no matter what, and somehow she felt better.

In that first Season Meg laid the first stones in the walls meant to protect her true self. Members of the ton saw an elegant, self-assured young woman who always behaved perfectly. Inside she felt small and fragile. If not for the friendship of Emily Maitland and Marisa Grantham—both sought after heiresses—she might have found no pleasure in her new life. But the girls had formed a bond that helped each of them endure the piercing scrutiny of the haute ton.

The walls surrounding Meg grew thicker and stronger with each passing year until she lived behind impenetrable castle walls, with only a few ever allowed to visit the girl locked inside. And all the while she wished on every star brave enough to peek out from a polluted London sky for one Scottish gentleman to come back to her.

Her first Season Meg had been certain Alec MacLaren would march into a ballroom—it didn’t matter which ballroom—and rescue her from all the boorish and cynical men paying her court, and the boorish equally cynical women looking for entertainment at her expense.

Her second Season she assured herself Alec would appear one day and take her riding in the park.

Her third Season she hoped for a morning call, just a visit, a word, a smile.

Her fourth Season she hoped for a glimpse of Alec on the street.

Somewhere around her fifth Season she realized Alec had no intention of ever marching into a ballroom, or taking her riding, or even paying her a call. Still, poor demented, besotted fool that she was, even in her seventh Season, more often than she cared to admit she still thought of Alec and hoped for that elusive happily ever after.

June 18, 1815 the world changed forever. It was several days later—after news of victory at Waterloo had been celebrated, after a member of the Ministry had visited with word of Colin’s heroic death in battle—when Meg learned how much her world had truly changed.

Dressed in mourning for her brother, Meg stood by the window seat in her chamber in Mayfair, holding the morning paper. It was an elegant room appointed with pale green silk, richly carved mahogany furniture, and a thick Aubusson carpet, so far removed from a bloody battlefield Meg felt she stood on another planet.

She took a deep breath, filled with the scent of rose potpourri, hesitating a moment before she opened her copy of the Morning Chronicle. Every morning it was harder and harder to open the paper, knowing each morning included an ever growing list of the fallen. Yet she had to know.

The true cost of battle began beneath a brief paragraph highlighting the glory of Waterloo. Meg read through that long list of the dead, her chest tightening as she saw the names of young men she had met at a ball or party, all the while looking for one name and praying that name would not be included in that horrible registry. And then she saw it, his name and the assurance that Alec Douglas Patrick MacLaren, the youngest son of the late Earl of Dunleith, had died a heroic death on the field of Waterloo.

Alec.

Meg closed her eyes, conjuring the image of Alec as he had been that last day on the cliffs above Loch Laren—his vibrant smile touching his beautiful eyes with light. We’ll see how you feel in a few years, Meg. We’ll see how you feel when I come home.

Alec would never come home.

Meg felt the life drain from her, the strength seeping from her limbs. Light swirled in her eyes. She crumpled, her bottom hitting the floor so hard a tea cup shuddered against a saucer on a nearby pedestal table.

She sat in a puddle of black muslin, amid the intricate design of the thick wool carpet, staring sightlessly at the paper clenched in her hand, a wave of nausea gripping her. She swallowed several times, fighting back the bile rising in her throat. She wished Wallace was with her. She wished she could bury her face in his soft fur and allow his gentleness to comfort her. But Wallace was no more.

The tears came slowly, working their way past her shock, until her body shook with the sobs breaking over her in violent wave after wave. She tried to stem the tide of pain swelling within her, but found it beyond her ability.

Alec, she whispered, feeling as though she was breaking into pieces.

Even though he had been no more than memories these past nine years, he had also been hope. Now he was gone.

Chapter One

London, 1815

Meg reminded herself of all the reasons she could not send Blandford scurrying from the room like the rodent he was. She sat on a sofa in the yellow drawing room of her grandmother’s elegant town house on Curzon Street, trying to keep her expression from revealing her contempt for their visitor.

I truly feared the man would never get it right. Wildon Fethersham, Viscount Blandford, picked a piece of lint from the sleeve of his black evening coat. Is it too much to ask for a coat to fit perfectly?

Meg had met the man several times when she was a girl and he had visited his uncle, the Earl of Dunleith. She had thought him disagreeable then—vain and spoiled—and she could honestly say time had not improved him.

She wondered if Blandford recalled the day he had once looked down his rather thin nose and proclaimed to everyone in the green drawing room of Dunleith Castle, that Meg had all the grace of a toad. True she had just bumped into the tea cart and sent a cup crashing to the floor, but it certainly wasn’t polite to notice.

Ten years had not dimmed the memory of that day, not because of the humiliation, but for what had happened next. Before any of the fifteen guests—all children of the adults who were gathered in another drawing room of Dunleith Castle—could utter a word, Alec MacLaren had turned to his cousin Blandford, smiled and said: apologize to the lady or I’ll blacken your eye. Blandford had simply glared at his cousin and declared: You wouldn’t dare. In the next instant, Blandford was sitting on the floor, holding his face and wailing about telling his mother. Alec had winked at Meg. And somehow all the humiliation had vanished into a lovely warm feeling. Instead of lingering humiliation, the memory made her smile—all because of Alec. And in this she found yet another reason to detest time spent in Blandford’s company—it made her think of Alec.

Lately she was doing her best to forget she had ever met Alec MacLaren. The man had been back from the continent for nearly a month, wounded but very much alive from all reports. And he still had not paid her a call, or sent her a note, beyond the very formal note he had sent her mother giving his condolences for the loss of Rory and Colin. It was definitely time to purge Alec MacLaren from her thoughts. Obviously he had managed to forget her.

She suspected Blandford didn’t even remember the name of the girl he had insulted that day at Dunleith Castle. Even without her history with the man, she would have known the cut of his cloth. Her grandmother usually displayed remarkable insight when it came to unmasking the cleverest cads. Yet for some strange reason, recently Hermione had become quite enchanted with Blandford. It was a mystery, a horribly vexing mystery.

She glanced at her grandmother, who sat beside Joanna across from Meg on a matching sofa in the shape of a sphinx. Although Hermione seemed intent on every word uttered by Blandford, Joanna looked as though someone were pounding on her head with a rock, doing his best to split her skull. Her mother hadn’t been well in weeks. Grief had taken a toll on Joanna, and Meg was at a loss as to how to help her mother.

Meg suppressed a sigh of relief when Blandford finally announced it was time he left. In her opinion that time had expired some five minutes before his arrival.

I hope you might come for a ride through the park with me tomorrow. Blandford pressed his lips to the back of her gloved hand, lingering a moment longer than propriety allowed. It was all Meg could manage not to yank her hand free of his grasp. I shall be desolate if you deny me the pleasure of your company.

Meg forced her lips into a smile. She had to admit, Blandford was certainly not unattractive, if one had a penchant for his particular type—just above medium height, slim, his light brown hair carefully cropped and coaxed into the latest fashion, his dark blue eyes heavily fringed with dark lashes. Meg, however, had never developed a taste for men who had the smooth, pretty looks of a pampered feline.

I’m terribly sorry Lord Blandford, but I have a prior engagement. Meg neglected to mention the prior engagement was with the latest E.W. Austen novel, The Country Miss.

Blandford drew his pretty features into a look of complete despair. I fear I shall wither, like a vine denied the sustenance of the sun if I must wait to see you until tomorrow at dinner, dear lady.

Do be careful, Lord Blandford. You shall crush me with the weight of your flattery.

He smiled, obviously pleased with himself. No doubt the man was contemplating the ways he would spend her dowry. I shall count the minutes until I see you again. He bid an elaborate farewell to each lady in turn before strutting from the drawing room.

Lady Hermione Chadburne released her breath on a long sigh in Blandford’s wake. Well, I must say Blandford certainly is persistent in his pursuit of you, my dear. Most gentlemen would have taken flight from your unwelcoming demeanor by now.

Blandford is enthralled with the beauty of my dowry.

Hermione waved aside Meg’s words. Not all of the young men who have paid you court in the past seven years were after your dowry. Many have been quite eligible. And you have not found any of them worthy.

Most of the eligible young men I know are either seeking a rich wife to fatten purses depleted through lives of excess, pompous peers who want a suitable bride to extend their bloodlines, or boring puppies yapping at my heels. Meg crinkled her nose at her grandmother. I suspect Blandford might be all of them rolled into one.

With your attitude I’m afraid you shall end up a spinster. Hermione turned to her daughter. What do think, Joanna? Are you concerned Margaret will reject every suitor? Perhaps end her days a spinster?

Joanna considered her words a moment before she spoke. Margaret simply needs to meet the right gentleman.

And yet she rejects everyone. Hermione fixed Meg in a steady stare. Although her expression remained serious, there was a glint in her eyes that gave Meg the impression her grandmother might be up to mischief. In truth, I believe she has allowed the past to cloud any possible future she might have. I’m afraid your experience with marriage has left a bitter taste in your daughter’s mouth.

Joanna sat straighter, her chin lifting slightly, the corners of her mouth tightening. Although three years shy of fifty, she looked years younger. Tall and slender, graceful in her movements, she had a few streaks of gray threaded through her dark chestnut brown hair. A few lines marred a face still beautiful enough to draw the attention of more than a few admiring gentlemen. Yet in the eight years since she had separated from her husband, Joanna had never once broken her vows to the man who had broken her heart.

I’m certain she knows we mustn’t judge all men by the treachery of one. Isn’t that true, Margaret?

When she thought of all the pain her father had caused Meg wanted to stand and stamp her feet, which was not allowed in the handbook of proper behavior. Instead she sat very still and kept her voice low. I’m simply cautious that’s all. After watching what she had imagined an ideal marriage die in betrayal, Meg examined each gentleman paying her court with a great deal of scrutiny. At times I wonder if marriage is right for me.

Joanna glanced at Meg, her green eyes wide. Margaret, I applaud your decision in being careful with this important decision. But I would hope you don’t allow what happened to me spoil your future. You are far too young to consider becoming a spinster.

Meg had in fact been dusting a place on the shelf the last few years. At her age most young ladies had either married or donned a cap. Fortunately she had good friends. Emily and Marisa still helped her navigate the treacherous terrain of the ballrooms of London. If I met a man I wanted to live with for the rest of my life, I might change my mind about marriage.

Meg thought of the young man who still managed to sneak into her thoughts when marriage